


Koshki

by FadedSepia



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Assassins Are Bad At Romance, Awkward Romance, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Humans Are So Slow On The Uptake, Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25430032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: Nat owns a cat. Anevilcat. A cat that even Hawkeye can’t get near. Except this cat – this tiny terror named after a literal Russianevil spirit– well, she doesn’t just tolerate Bucky, she fuckinglikeshim. Or, at least, she lets him pet her, pick her up, and take her back to his quarters, but now the cat is staying with him. Which sucks.Bucky and Nat wind up as athingnearly by accident… but mostly by cats.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 37
Kudos: 88





	1. Cats

**Author's Note:**

> Blame USSFriendship… who really ought to be named USS _FiendShit_ (because she _knows_ what she did).

**•✯•✯•✯•**

Bucky and Natasha wind up close by chance, an accident of circumstance.

Yes, they had a _moment_ during her training, but he wasn’t exactly in his right mind, and she didn’t really have _options,_ so they just sort of leave it to die. They’re co-workers, decent friends, and the rest goes into the _we do not talk about it_ box for years.

_Until._

Nat winds up in the hospital, not for long, but she’s been exposed to _something._ She’s alright, but she needs to be in hermetic isolation for a bit. Except Nat owns a cat. An _evil_ cat. A cat that even Hawkeye can’t get near. Except this cat – this tiny terror named after a literal Russian _evil spirit_ – well, she doesn’t just tolerate Bucky, she fucking _likes_ him. Or, at least, she lets him pet her, pick her up, and take her back to his quarters long enough for the heavy duty cleaners to get every iota of cat, fluff, and dust out of Nat’s apartment.

But now the cat is staying with him. Which _sucks,_ because – well – Alpine is standoffish, but he’s a rescue and skittish, not mean, not a fucking _asshole_ like Liho, who has been chasing the big guy all over his fucking apartment for three days, until-

_Shit!_

Alpine smacks her right across the tail.

And that stops it. Right there.

Done.

They’re friends now, whatever that might mean for cats. They’re eating from the same dish or stretched out in the same sunbeam or curled up together on his _favourite_ jacket – _the fluffy bastards_ – but it’s certainly making his job easier.

Until Nat is cleared to take Liho back because... _Fuck,_ the little black cat doesn’t want to leave. She wants to go with Nat, yeah, but she doesn’t want to go _without_ Alpine, and Bucky isn’t giving up his cat.

Natasha doesn’t want his cat, either; she’s already bitching about the white hair on her pants leg just from _being_ in his apartment, but – really – what can they do? Bucky lifts both cats and hauls their dumb furry asses down to Natasha’s quarters, thinking he can sneak Alpine out once Liho is back in her own space.

And he succeeds... Until Nat is calling him at o-two-hundred because Liho. Will not. Stop YOWLING!

So he has to drag Alpine down there, but he’s in his pyjamas and barefoot and tired, which means Bucky’s just crashing on Nat’s couch.

Where he will end up sleeping for the three days it takes to finally get Alpine out without setting Liho off screeching like the nasty thing she is.

And it’s fine. Really, it’s _fine,_ and Natasha _owes_ him now, so when it comes time for him to be gone for a month, Bucky doesn’t care that his fur is going to ruin her wardrobe, Alpine likes Nat alright, and she already cleans a cat-box on the daily, so she can watch him.

And she agrees, but Alpine practically leaves trails when he walks, so she just grabs Liho and shows up at Bucky’s door the morning he deploys. Which is alright, really; not like he has any deep dark secrets hidden in his apartment.

And everything is in one piece when he gets back. Natasha has been watching his place, so he knows Barton, Wilson, and Stevie have stayed away, and there won’t be anything waiting to prank him and explode, which is a relief.

But things are _different_ when he returns. Little things. A teacup and mug that aren’t his in the sink. A hideously fluffy throw on the back of his couch next to his own crocheted blanket. A redheaded spy asleep in his bed in one of his old workout shirts, and...

_... Oh, shit..._

Bucky might have a problem after all.

**•✯•✯•✯•**

Natasha has been living in James’s space for nearly five weeks. And, well, maybe he doesn’t have secrets to hide, but that doesn’t mean he’s been showing any of his teammates all that much of himself outside of work. James Barnes is a private man, and Natasha has had over thirty days to peer inside the physical space he’s built for himself; it’s been enlightening, shocking, even, if not unpleasantly so.

She expected James to have a hairdryer. He does, but it’s in his toolbox beside a heat-gun and a welding torch, and runs far too hot to ever be used on human hair, so she has to guess that his hair just... _dries_ like that. Which isn’t fair. That level of effortlessness shouldn’t be possible. And it’s unusual when she looks around the rest of the apartment.

James has set out personal touches, but his space is very organized. He favours cabinets, vertical displays, easy access that can be easily hidden. He buys for the week by the look of his pantry and refrigerator, and what he leaves involves a lot of produce. A _lot;_ if she didn’t know better, Natasha would swear James was a vegetarian, or something close to it.

James surprises her by keeping his firearms quite far from his bedroom – there isn’t even a hint of gun oil from a pistol stored in or near the bedside tables – and Tasha wonders about that... Until she remembers that Clint was like that for a while, when he started discussing suicidal thoughts after the Loki incident. The man who lives in this apartment _is_ carrying a lot of guilt, a lot of _red_ in his ledger, and maybe this is a reflection of that.

The lack of guns throughout most of the apartment is offset by the omnipresence of knives, though, and that is oddly comforting for Natasha. Plus, it isn’t like James has an empty closet; his wardrobe is extensive. Tailored and – as expected – fashionably classic. She isn’t surprised; it’s never been a secret that the former sergeant knows how to dress. Natasha finds herself drifting in to poke through his wardrobe some nights while the cats eat, putting together ensembles for... no _real_ reason, but it’s fun, and it’s not hurting anything. In truth, this could help with planning for shared missions in the future; it’s not like she doesn’t know Clint’s entire wardrobe, too, so there shouldn’t be a problem.

Plus, her nosiness comes in handy when she stays over during the second week he’s gone. Usually, she leaves the cats until morning, but tonight called for a bottle of wine, and she might have finished it herself, and maybe she’ll just stay over. Her quarters aren’t far, but she doesn’t want to walk back altered, so... that leaves her to root through James’ closet for _something_ to sleep in. She pulls out a t-shirt, then curls up on his bed because it is the _only_ place in the apartment that James has trained his giant, white, wardrobe menace of a cat to stay away from. Natasha sleeps through the entire night, and isn’t _that_ pleasant? She takes the shirt with her in the morning to wash it.

That night, Natasha tucks into her own bed... and sleeps like _shit_ for the first three hours. It’s because she has green agent training first thing the next morning. She always dreads it; the lack of sleep is annoying, but not unusual. She’ll rest well tomorrow.

It’s five days of _tomorrows_ before she gives in and tries sleeping in James’ shirt again.

It’s nine days of _tomorrows_ before she gives up and crawls into James’ bed again.

It’s one night of restful sleep before Natasha clues in.

She has a problem.

_Shit._

**•✯•✯•✯•**

Bucky thinks about it. Seriously considers just collapsing onto the other side of the bed because – whatever the fuck his problem might be – Natasha is a professional. _He_ is a professional, and he can act like one. It’s not like he hasn’t shared a bed with her since _then,_ either, but... she’s sleeping soundly. It wouldn’t be right to wake her, not when sleep is such a premium commodity in this business. Plus, if Natasha Romanov _isn’t_ armed, Bucky will eat his _left arm_ up to the elbow, and he already has a headache; gunfire in a small space won’t exactly help that, and he’s in no mood to be shocked.

He sighs. He needs a fucking shower, but getting to that means going _into_ the bedroom, so... Bucky grabs Natasha’s credentials, hefts his bag, and slips to the other end of their block of on base apartments. They’re laid out on nearly the same floorplan, and it’s just a fucking shower; he can change into clean pants and one of his spare undershirts and go back to sleep on his couch. And he will. He’ll shower and head right back once he gets past the fact that _another_ of his shirts is hanging up to dry in Natasha’s shower, hanging from the same caddy holding her vetiver shampoo.

_Whatever._

He’s showered, so now Bucky is _clean_ and exhausted and _finally_ back in his own apartment. He pushes the cats off the sofa and grabs the _wrong_ damn blanket, but curls up to sleep, anyway. If Natasha can steal his clothes, he can _borrow_ her blanket.

Bucky learns he’s right just after he wakes up; Natasha _is_ sleeping armed, and he _maybe_ gets _almost_ hit by one of her widowbites when he tries to take a piss the next morning, but – aside from a spate of cursing – it’s nothing too serious. Never mind that the shift from Russian to English and ire to sass is comfortably smooth. Never mind that Natasha seems fine wearing his shirt around without pants, even if she should be able to find them, since she apparently spent the entire month rearranging his closet, and... honing the nicks from his knives. _Nice of her,_ and strange, but Bucky doesn’t have time to ask her about it, not when she’s out after snatching up Liho and downing a single cup of coffee, the promise to wash his shirt left in her wake.

Along with the mug that doesn’t belong in the kitchen and blanket that isn’t his still draped over the back of his couch.

 _Fuck it_.

Alpine mewls and twines around his ankles, so Bucky feeds him, then – for the first time this month – makes it to sleep in his own bed, where he completely ignores the lingering scent of vetiver on his pillow.

**•✯•✯•✯•**

Natasha promised to wash James’ shirt. _Shirt,_ not _shirts;_ she doesn’t _have_ to clean the others, let alone return them. It’s unorthodox – _uncouth_ – but maybe he won’t mind. Maybe he didn’t notice. Maybe it was _someone else_ who left a freshly used towel in her hamper and a broken hair-tie in her trash bin.

_Whatever._

This is... _unacceptable._ James is her colleague, her _friend_ , and he’s trusted her enough to let her get this close. Natasha knows full well she can’t afford to push things, knows she should just roll on past this and let it be. _Knows,_ but doesn’t exactly _care._

Except that she needs to be downstairs in an hour, and she still hasn’t washed or gotten more than a single cup of coffee, and Liho is being a little brat this morning on top of everything else. Natasha doesn’t have time for this. She can set it aside for now.

Probably ought to set it aside _forever._

She rushes through her morning, overbrews her coffee, burns the toast, nearly kneecaps a trainee. It’s not even noon, and Natasha is already getting the urge to slip back to her quarters and crawl into bed. _Her own_ bed. The one she hasn’t slept in for more than three weeks.

_Damn it._

Coulson spends the afternoon pointedly looking concerned in every direction except hers. Clint follows her out, trailing her all the way back to her on-base apartment, only stopping when she closes the door on his queries. And, by the half-yelped curse, on his nose as well.

Natasha doesn’t bother trying her luck with cooking again. She dumps out a can of food for Liho, gets a glass of water, and – for the first time in weeks – crawls beneath the blankets in her own bed, where she refuses to dwell on the fact that she’s sleeping in the same shirt she woke up in this morning. Just like she ignores the fact that, despite her hopes, it isn’t helping. Natasha presses her face into the pillow, but it only smells like _her own_ shampoo.

**•✯•✯•✯•**


	2. Sleep

**•✯•✯•✯•**

Sixty-five hours without seeing someone isn’t a long time by any standard, least of all by the skewed timescale Bucky’s navigated all these years. It’s little more than a blip, not even three full days – not that Bucky has been counting the hours, _the minutes_ – since that last time he saw Natasha. Well, the _first_ time he _saw_ her, _noticed_ her _that_ way after he got back. Not that she would have been easy to miss, curled up under his comforter. Not that Bucky ought to be dwelling on it, since it isn’t – _and never will be_ – a thing.

This, though? This might be. Alpine has _never,_ not once in all the years since Bucky plucked him off the street, dared to get into bed with him. His cat _knows_ better; Alpine likes space to himself the same way Bucky does, except... well – _shit_ – there he is, knocking the pillow off the other side of the bed, mewling and digging through the sheets, padding into the fucking closet once Bucky sets him back on the floor, like the fuzzy old guy is looking for something. For _someone._

Bucky’s not an idiot, so he doesn’t have to guess who it is, just like he doesn’t have the patience to deal with this crap at o-three-hundred. He doesn’t question why he knows to pluck Alpine up and head straight to Natasha’s apartment, though he does pause at the slight blood-smear dried on the outside of her door. Cat under one arm, Bucky raises the other, knocking. Waiting.

**•✯•✯•✯•**

Three days isn’t that long to go without sleep, especially not with her schedule, but Natasha is reaching the end of her rope, a rope that she is going to use to strangle her cat if Liho doesn’t stop being such a tiny terror. It’s bad enough that her own sheets feel foreign against her skin, she doesn’t need the all night caterwauling to make getting to sleep any _more_ difficult than it already is. Monday was a disaster. Tuesday went sideways after the first drill, bad enough that Coulson gave _voice_ to his concern.

Told her she was overworked. Suggested she go home and get some rest. _Insisted_ on it after Natasha nearly screamed that she couldn’t, only managing to stop herself from saying why. That was yesterday, and- _No,_ that was Tuesday, and yesterday was Wednesday, and now it’s _technically_ Thursday morning, but the time has started to run together without sleep or work to break it up.

Liho bats at her feet, and Natasha nearly kicks her off the bed, only the little black cat scampers away before she can, slinking out of her bedroom, finally quiet.

_Yes..._

A metallic thunk sounds from her living room, repetitive and rhythmic; someone knocking. On her door. With something metal. _At three a.m._

As she slides out of bed, Natasha isn’t sure whether to be hopeful or wary, or whether she can still feel anything at all besides exhaustion.

**•✯•✯•✯•**

The door swings inward, and – face to face with her for the first time in days – Bucky stills, frozen as Natasha blinks blearily back at him. For all that she looks half-dead and dug-up, he can’t stop the answering smile tugging at his lips at the near-feral grin she flashes, nor can he quiet the yelp as her fingers grasp him by the arm and yank him into her apartment. Thank fuck cats do well when nearly thrown; Alpine isn’t happy about it, but he’ll live, even if he does hiss back at Bucky before snuggling up to Liho beneath the coffee table.

”Sorry. He was being weird.”

”Hn.” Natasha hasn’t let go of him, and she hasn’t stopped moving, pulling him through to the back of her mirrored-layout apartment, headed straight for her bedroom.

Bucky isn’t sure whether the roiling in his chest is excitement or terror, nor how he manages to get out even the barest of questions around it. ”Um..?”

”I can’t sleep.” She says it like it’s any sort of sensible answer.

Bucky’s left to grasp at her meaning. ”Because of the cats? Yeah, me, nei-”

”I need to sleep.” Natasha cuts him off, rounding on him in the curtained darkness of her bedroom, nearly on tiptoe as she bites out. “Get. In. The bed.”

Natasha pushes him toward the mattress, huffs, crawls onto the opposite side of the bed and tugs at his sleeveless until he’s sitting up on the right. _Laying down_ on the right once she pushes him back. ”Put your arm out.”

At this point, the request makes as much sense as anything else this morning; it sounds completely insane, but Bucky thinks better than to argue.

Natasha lifts a pillow, tucking it over his prosthetic arm before tucking herself in against him, cheek on her pillow on his vibranium biceps as she closes her eyes. She shimmies closer, yawns, and mumbles out a string of suspiciously appreciative sounds... that slip away into soft snores. 

Bucky dry-swallows at nothing.

Natasha’s face slides off the pillow and onto his chest; he can feel her drooling through the thin fabric of his undershirt. 

He’s confused, and _concerned,_ but there’s only so much he can do without waking the woman snuggled against his side, and Bucky can’t be sure he isn’t here now _because of waking her_ those few minutes ago. Besides, it’s dark and blessedly quiet in Natasha’s bedroom, and _disturbingly comfortable_ in her bed. Warmer than he’s used to with someone else beside him, but not unpleasantly so.

 _Although…_

Bucky shifts onto his side, letting his other arm drape across Natasha’s back. _This is fine._ He can forgive the damp spot fronting his shirt, accept the wuffling snorts she’s breathing against his chest. Harder to ignore is the urge to nuzzle against her temple, to bury his nose in her red hair as sleep tugs him under.

**•✯•✯•✯•**

Natasha wakes up hot, disgustingly so, sweaty and sticky and _stuck,_ somehow wedged in her bedding. Sunlight bleeds around the edges of her curtains, climbing up the wall and glinting off the polished metal pressing into her cheek. Her eyes follow the curves of the plating to the point where silver seams with skin, then further up, tracing the sharp jut of collar bone and the curved line of throat, stopping when they land on just-parted lips and lash-brushed cheeks.

James shifts, arms tightening to pull her closer to him.

 _Oh…_ She mentally stumbles her way through the last moments she remembers, cringing all the while, but – really – what _else_ could she have done? Especially with James already there, outside her door _exactly when_ she needed him; with him curled around her now, Natasha is – once again – left with few options. She might try to – might be _able to_ – extricate herself, but she’d still probably rouse him. Waking James would mean waking the furry fiends that she just can make out cuddled behind his head. Natasha hasn’t caught up enough on her rest to guarantee she won’t punt the first one to whine out the window, just like she can’t be sure when she’s going to be able to sleep like this again, deeply and without interruption. 

It makes for an easy decision. She nuzzles her cheek against James’ chest, stifling a yawn before mumbling to the sleeping man beside her. ”Goodnight, then.”

”Good morning.”

Natasha freezes, lifting her eyes, blue meeting sleepy grey as James blinks.

**•✯•✯•✯•**

Bucky has the urge to rub the sleep from his eyes, but that would mean moving his arms, which would mean letting go of the woman therein, something he’s not all that keen on. He can rub his face against Natasha’s forehead, though, which addresses the slight itch _while_ giving him a reasonable excuse to nuzzle at her. ”Did ya sleep better?”

”Yes...” She _mumbles,_ which is rare and endearing and _problematic;_ low, soft, sweetly distracting. Natasha’s fingers twitch where her hand rests on his chest.

”Good.” Bucky shifts fully onto his side again, scooting upward just enough that her head can tuck under his chin before he hugs her closer as he closes his eyes. ”’m goin’ back t’sleep.”

”’kay.” She wriggles a moment before he feels her breath steady out against his neck. 

**•✯•**

Bucky’s still comfortably too warm when he wakes the second time; Natasha is dozing again, and she’s brought her tiny snores along as well.

Accompanying them is the low rumble of his stomach, which probably isn’t a sound anyone wants to wake up hearing. Bucky noses her hair line, voice rough despite his attempt at whispering. ”Coffee?”

”Mmn-!” He can’t tell whether Natasha is trying to snuggle or if she thinks headbutting into his chest will make the coffee magically happen. Or maybe – judging by the sharp hissing sound as Bucky pulls back and stops shading her – she’s trying to hide from the tiny sunbeam cutting across her face. Natasha nods, but her response is muffled because she’s rolled onto her stomach, smashing her face into the bedding. ”Please?”

”Sure thing.” Bucky nearly steps on the cats as they scamper out of his way, but that’s only because they are both – _thankfully_ – quiet enough that he’s nearly forgotten about them. He hasn’t been in Natasha’s quarters often, certainly hasn’t stayed for any length of time, but her coffee press is easy to find and simple to use. Bucky makes a full pot and pours himself a cup while he listens to Natasha puttering around in the other room. He picks a spot on the couch, planting himself there to wait.

It’s not for very long.

Natasha shuffles past him and into her kitchen a few minutes later, and – _no_ – a button-down shirt all on its own really shouldn’t _count_ as pyjamas; especially when it isn’t hers, when Bucky can say with certainty that an identical grey dress shirt – the _same damn one_ – had been hanging in his closet last month before he left. That makes three of his shirts she’s purloined, and those are only the ones he’s been able to count, but... Bucky doesn’t mind. It’s not like Natasha doesn’t look good in it; not like he doesn’t _feel_ good seeing her in it.

Bucky stares at the television, reading the subtitles since it’s turned on automatically muted, visually attending to the tick of words and _avoiding_ the woman he just can see from the corner of his eye. Well... not _entirely_ avoiding.

Natasha pours herself a cup of sugar with just enough coffee to melt the crystals, puts out food for the cats, walks her way to the living-room, and proceeds to sit in the divot created by his crossed legs.

_Crap._

He readjusts, leaning to the left and nudging her to the right.

Natasha leans back into the arm of the sofa, left cheek resting in the crook of Bucky’s shoulder, and that’s better; he can hold her and still read, and she can mutter lowly to herself and chug that horrible excuse for a morning coffee.

 _Wait…_

Bucky blinks. Takes another sip of coffee. Looks down, only to realize Natasha is looking back up, leaving him to dazedly ask, ”So...?”

**•✯•✯•✯•**

_So what?_ She’s comfortable because, to be honest, _he_ is surprisingly comfortable as a seat. Natasha lowers her mug, turning away long enough to set it on the coffee table before returning to James and his perplexed little frown. ”I can move.”

”You don’t have to.”

”Good.” Natasha tucks her head against his neck, closing her eyes. ”I don’t want to.”

James’ right arm slips around her waist, and he clears his throat.

She doesn’t need to look at him; she can clearly hear his unvoiced question. Natasha just isn’t certain how – or _if_ – she wants to answer it yet. She nods against his throat and draws her legs in closer. ”Liho likes you.”

”Mm.” Prosthetic arm now pressed to her knees, leaving her enfolded in a ball in his lap, the man holding her leans back to answer, ”Alpine likes _everybody.”_

True, but, ”Liho has _standards.”_

James snorts, brows lifting just slightly as his grey eyes shift to the kitchen before settling back on her. ”She’s _finicky_.”

”Maybe, but...” Natasha pauses, considering her options. _Option,_ really, since only one ensures that she both doesn’t have to move _and_ might have a chance at similar good mornings – and _good nights_ – in the future. ”She has good taste.”

”Ah.” He’s silent, face going nearly blank before the barest of shy smiles tugs at the corner of his mouth. ”That so? Guess there’s no other choice, then.”

”Not that I can see.” There _is,_ but Natasha isn’t going to consider it; she can already say she’ll prefer this one over any other.

James tugs her back to rest against him, cheek pressing to the top of her head a moment before he reaches around her. He passes Natasha her coffee before reaching for his own, metal fingers clinking on the mug. She feels him press a kiss to her hairline, answers with a peck against his throat.

And that ends it. Perfectly simple.

Done.

They’re... well, Natasha isn’t sure – not really – but it’s good. _They’re_ good. She and James are sitting together on her sofa, drinking coffee and working up to full wakefulness, and – startling though it might feel – it’s made the morning so much easier.

**•✯•✯•✯•**


	3. Morning

**•✯•✯•✯•**

Natasha’s mental health leave ends tomorrow, and Bucky got sick of waking up with the cats on his face that _first_ morning; they had to do something. Alpine is better about keeping the tiny she-devil masquerading as a black cat in line in his own space, so Bucky and Natasha are drinking their coffee on his couch today. He’s on the right end, each cat claiming half of his lap. She’s refused the fuzzy blanket _still_ living on the back of his couch, opting instead to shove her icy toes under his thigh as she leans against the arm at the other end of the sofa. Natasha wiggles them, tickling the back of his leg as knocking sounds on Bucky’s door, double tap accompanied by a tentative query, “Barnes, you up?”

Bucky doesn’t _want_ to get up, but he can’t just leave Hawkeye out in the hallway.

Well, he _can,_ but he probably shouldn’t.

He stands, crossing to unlock the door before immediately retreating back to his sofa, his lapful of cats, and his good morning, frozen tickling toes and all. Bucky looks to his left, not bothering to fight the smile he can feel taking up residence on his face. Though, when Barton finally drops into one of his chairs, the look on _his_ face makes Bucky think that – _maybe_ – he should have toned it down a little.

Hawkeye glances first to Bucky, sipping coffee in his t-shirt and boxers, then to Natasha, sipping coffee, _also_ in Bucky’s t-shirt and boxers. ”So since when is this a thing?”

**•✯•**

Natasha shrugs, pushes Bucky’s arm up, and snuggles into the newly cleared sliver of space as she pulls her feet up beneath her on the sofa cushion. ”What day is it?” She’s still _off;_ good rest and a change in routine can do that.

Clint quirks a brow, head tipping enough for her to know he’s _concerned,_ regardless of the even tone of his voice. ”Saturday.”

The two of them reached their barely-spoken agreement Thursday morning, so, ”Two days.”

”Fifty-one hours,” answers James.

”R-... Right…” Chin resting on steepled hands, Clint nods to the two of them, still talking to her, though his gaze has drifted to James. “No explanation?”

Natasha doesn’t owe him _any_ sort of answer, let alone a _good_ one, but she knows it’s only because he cares – about her, and probably about the team – so she offers the thinnest of reasons. “Liho likes him.”

What she doesn’t expect is to see his brows raise evenly; Natasha isn’t quite sure what to make of it when Clint drops his hands to his lap, leaning back in the chair, nod grave. “Well, then it’s not a problem, is it?”

“No.” She takes a sip of coffee and sets her mug down. Natasha glances up at James, drops her eyes to his lap, then hers, and shakes her head. “ _It_ is not the problem.”

**•✯•**

”There’s a problem?” Bucky’s adjusted to this new arrangement of theirs with ease; Natasha is, in most moments, no hassle for him to read, which makes her discomfort hard to miss.

”Yes, James; there is a reason I have never owned a white cat.” She plucks a single white hair from her nightshirt – which isn’t even _her_ shirt – holding it up for him to see, but... 

Honestly, that is barely an issue. Especially not when he runs so much warmer than she does, which leaves him rolling his eyes, head ducked as he grumbles into her hair. ”They’re both sitting on me, anyway.”

Bucky isn’t sure where this is going, and glances briefly in Barton’s direction for any sort of lifeline.

Hawkeye is blank faced, but his eyes are smiling; he looses the tiniest snicker as Natasha keeps talking.

” _That_ is another problem.” One Bucky did not cause, but one that – by the way she’s poking her finger into his chin – Natasha has chosen to lay at his feet, nonetheless. ”All three of us cannot fit in your lap.”

That _is_ true; Liho might be little more than a tiny ball of black fluff and spite, but Alpine is eighteen pounds of snowy sprawl.

Bucky scoops up the cats, ignores Natasha’s petulant huff as he puts them _both_ in _her_ lap, sighs softly as he pulls her closer to sit in his own. ”There. Problem solved.”

”New problem.” Natasha flicks his ear. ”I am covered in white hair from the cat I do not own.”

Clint Barton fucking squeaks on the other side of his living room, _utterly unhelpful_ in this moment.

“We’re a package deal.” At this point, that probably applies to all four of them, and it works most of the time. Bucky knows there’s a way around this; a pragmatic solution that keeps Natasha as part of his daily life and the both of them sleeping without interruption.

And there is. It’s simple, really. “The cats can live in your apartment.”

“Not a workable solution.”

“It is if you stay _here.”_ It’s only after the words have left his mouth that Bucky realizes _exactly_ what he’s said.

Natasha isn’t taking the statement lightly either, neck craned to stare up at him, brows dropping in thought as she then looks away.

Bucky glances around the apartment – pointedly avoiding the shit-eating smirk he’s getting from the man across from them. He prods gently at her shoulder. “Well?”

“There’s not enough room in your closet.”

The woman in his lap has been through his closet enough times to know how big it is, and that he has an entire rack of hanging space free. _Oh, right._ “There is for your _clothes,_ and _some_ of your knives.”

“Yes, but…” Natasha draws the word out as she tips her head back to look at him again, all pouting blue eyes. “... not _all_ of them.”

She isn’t wrong, but he’s not moving his shoes. _Again._ Bucky worries his lip through a sigh, manages not to roll his eyes, and flicks a finger across the end of her nose. “Gear in your closet, clothes in mine?”

Natasha blinks, nodding thoughtfully before she reaches for her coffee. “It _would_ make load-outs simpler.”

“Saves on storage for food and sand.” Buck won’t say no to _not_ smelling cat-box first thing in the morning when he heads into his bathroom.

“Keeps _your_ cat off my clothes.”

“Keeps _our_ cats off my _face.”_

And that’s that. Practical and effortless.

Done.

He’s on his couch, and she’s in his lap, and Hawkeye’s losing his shit in the chair on the other side of the room, but – well – he honestly doesn’t care about that last part.

Natasha tips her head back, and Bucky tilts his down; they share the briefest coffee-tinged kiss before she resettles herself in his lap and he reaches for his mug, and nothing could be any easier.

**•✯•✯•✯•**


End file.
